Chapter 3 What I Give

Charlotte

Charlie and I run through the snowy woods, weaving between bare trees, leaping over fallen logs, cutting through drifts that come up to our chests. Snow sprays up around my legs with every stride. It clings to my fur and melts into my skin, cold and sharp and perfect. It’s been too long since we’ve been able to run like this. Too long since we had space and air and nothing chasing us. Charlie takes the lead with his familiar confidence. We curve around a dense shrub, and he stops so suddenly that I skid straight into him. My paws dig into the snow as I catch myself. I huff, irritated, about to snap at him, but then I look past his shoulder. A lake stretches out in front of us. It’s massive and frozen solid, its surface uneven and scarred from old cracks and refrozen seams. Snow has drifted into shallow hollows, leaving wide stretches of exposed ice that catch the fading light. I take a slow step forward, drawn without thinking. The ice looks thick enough, old enough; it isn’t smooth, but I’ve skated worse. My chest tightens because this isn’t just a lake. It’s an answer. I already know I won’t be able to afford rink time. I already know I’ll need a job as soon as possible to help keep the house standing. I know I won’t have time for clubs or teams, or anything that requires money, permission, or consistency. But this? This is open. This is quiet. This doesn’t ask anything of me. This could be a place to skate. A place where I don’t have to explain myself or pretend I don’t miss it—a place where I can breathe. Charlie circles the edge of the lake, nose down, checking the area out of habit. I follow, memorising every turn, every stand of trees, every break in the brush. I mark it in my mind like a map I’ll need later. When we finally turn back toward town, I glance over my shoulder one last time. The ice is already fading into shadow, but I know I will come back for it. That spot is mine.

The sun is dipping low by the time we reach the outskirts of town. Streetlights flicker on one by one. We slow as houses start to appear, snowbanks lining narrow driveways. We already know Dad won’t be home yet. He’ll have found a bar. He always does. We shift behind the house, skin prickling, bones snapping back into place. I tug on my clothes with numb fingers, grateful for thumbs again when I reach the door. It sticks, like everything else here and Charlie shoulders it open with a grunt. Inside, the house is quiet and cold. We head upstairs, taking turns in the freezing shower. The water barely gets warm, but it’s enough to rinse the sweat and snow away. I pull on clean clothes and sit on my bed, staring at the stain on the ceiling. It looks like a cloud if I tilt my head just right. Or maybe a wolf. I don’t know. Charlie flops down beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight. “This town looks pretty, hey Lotty?” he says, a crooked smirk on his face. “Yeah. It seems alright.” I shrug, keeping my voice casual. Inside, I’m already counting steps. Already thinking about how long it would take to walk back to the lake—already itching to grab my skates and go. I don’t, though. Not yet. I need daylight, time, and I need to be careful.

Dad comes home just before midnight. I hear him before I see him, boots scraping the porch, keys dropped somewhere they don’t belong. The door bangs open, and he stumbles inside, reeking of alcohol, carrying a small plastic bag of groceries like it’s a prize he won. He dumps it on the floor and makes it two steps up the stairs before his legs give out. He collapses there, half twisted and already snoring. I grab the bag and carry it into the kitchen to unload two carrots, a loaf of bread and six eggs. I stand there for a moment, staring down at it, already flipping through combinations in my head. It isn’t enough, not really, not for three people. I pull on my shoes and head back down the drive to the car. The cold bites straight through the soles as I open the boot and retrieve the small box I take with me every time we move. It’s full of spices and condiments. Things that make food stretch. I knew better than to leave those behind.

Back inside, I set to work. I boil the eggs. Mash them with curry powder and a little mayo. Toast the bread just enough that it doesn’t go soggy. I make three sandwiches, neat and even. I carry one upstairs to Charlie, who’s standing on a chair by the window, holding his ancient flip phone up to make it work. “I got us enrolled in Wellington High,” he tells me, as I hold out the plate. He hops down, eyes lighting up. “Nice.”

“I’ll look for uniforms tomorrow,” I say. “Probably second hand.”

“Yeah.” He nods, already eating. “That’s fine.” I leave him to it and head back downstairs. I place one sandwich next to Dad on the stairs. He’ll be angry if there’s nothing when he wakes up. I wrap the last one and slide it into the fridge. I don’t take one for myself, and I won’t tell Charlie there wasn’t enough. I don’t tell him because he doesn’t need that weight. He needs to be strong. He needs to blend in. He needs to look like he belongs. If one of us is going to get out of this, it will be him.

I crawl into bed and pull the blanket up to my chin. My stomach aches, but I ignore it. I stare at the ceiling again, at the stain that might be a cloud or a wolf, and think about the lake. Tomorrow, I’ll go back, I’ll skate, and no matter what it costs me, I’ll make sure Charlie never has to know what I give up to get him out.